


Flight

by grim_lupine



Category: A Separate Peace - John Knowles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-15
Updated: 2011-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grim_lupine/pseuds/grim_lupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eugenia Forrester writes her essay like the studious girl she is, handwriting neat and orderly, focused only on thoughts of her schoolwork, and she most definitely does not watch her best friend sleep soundly in the sunlight. She doesn’t notice the golden spill of Finny’s hair over her back, or the soft bow of her mouth in repose, or the slice of skin at her waist, hidden and vulnerable and—</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flight

**Author's Note:**

> This fic comes with a small genderswap picspam I did [here](http://grim-lupine.livejournal.com/66053.html).

-

\--

When Gene first meets Finny, she hates her fiercely for the space of about a week—hates her for being bright and laughing and charming, everything Gene has tried to mold herself into, everything she cannot be. She hates Finny for throwing an arm around Gene’s shoulders as if they have known each other for years, for whispering into her ear, “We’re going to be best friends, you’ll see,” for refusing to be put off like any normal person would be. She is too much, and next to her Gene is constantly aware of being not enough.

But soon, too soon, her hatred falters in her grasp; runs through her like sand clutched in a fist, burns out and dies. That is Finny’s gift: hatred cannot find its legs in her presence, as if she defies it by her very existence.

Gene realizes, later, that Finny never even noticed her aloofness that first week, and it isn’t because Finny can’t conceive of being disliked; it’s that Finny liked _her_ , immediately, and because she likes her so much she can’t think of it being different for Gene. And Gene finds, helplessly, that it isn’t. There is no moderation with Finny, only extremes: Gene hated her when she met her, and the moment hatred left her was the moment she fell in love.

*

Gene is short for Eugenia. She’s gone by that her whole life, heard it delicately called across the house from her mother’s lips, in heavy tones as her father lectures her, from relatives who say _Eugenia can you_ and _Eugenia you must_ , expectations like prison bars from which she can’t break free.

She’s gone by that her whole life, until she meets Finny and says, “Hello, I’m Eugenia,” holding out her hand like she’s been taught; and Finny takes one look at her and says, “No, you aren’t.”

Gene blinks, retreats into cool politeness with a well-bred, “Excuse me?”

“It doesn’t suit you one bit,” Finny says cheerfully. “Now _Gene_ , maybe—yes, you’re a Gene all right, glad we got that fixed. I’m Finny.”

Gene burns at her presumptuousness at the time, but even still, it’s _Gene_ she goes by after that, _Gene_ she introduces herself as, _Gene_ she thinks when she thinks of herself. Until she met Finny, Gene hadn’t known how much she hated the sound of her own name, the things it represented, the rigid cast she had forced herself into that Finny had broken open with a handful of words.

Until she met Finny, Gene hadn’t known a lot of things.

*

Finny runs everywhere because she cannot stay still, because she is too alive for the world, because she loves the ground beneath her feet and the wind in her lungs and the sun gilding her face, because she is young and strong and in love with life. She comes to class with her hair tangled and her clothes out of order, cheeks flushed and a laugh in her voice. The teachers don’t know what to do with her, when the rules say to reprimand her but their own hearts say to love her; so they do nothing, and Finny continues to run.

When they’re in their room and Finny puts her legs up on her desk and balances her chair unsteadily, Gene can see that her limbs are long, lean, golden. Gene shouldn’t be looking.

Gene is always looking.

“Oh, who can do homework on a day like this?” Finny asks one day when they’re studying, (well, _Gene_ is studying; Finny keeps yawning and knuckling her eyes and staring beseechingly at her paper and pen as if it will stand up and start writing on its own) and promptly flings herself out of her chair and walks over to the window to throw it open and stick her head outside. “This weather isn’t meant for studying, Gene, just look at it!”

“Is that going to be your excuse when you turn up in class with no essay, then?” Gene asks dryly, determinedly not looking up. “I’d love to see how that works out.”

“Well obviously I’m going to do it _eventually_ ,” Finny says, but sinks down onto the floor to lie in a patch of sunlight; she looks as if she has no intention to move for the next ten years. “I mean it, I will,” she says, already sounding drowsy, pillowing her head on her arms. “Just wake me in a little while.”

Gene shakes her head, but it’s a wasted gesture on Finny, who is already asleep. Finny, who is beautiful and bright and doesn’t need to worry about things like doing her schoolwork perfectly to make her mark on the world—as if she didn’t do that simply by existing.

Eugenia Forrester writes her essay like the studious girl she is, handwriting neat and orderly, focused only on thoughts of her schoolwork, and she most definitely does not watch her best friend sleep soundly in the sunlight. She doesn’t notice the golden spill of Finny’s hair over her back, or the soft bow of her mouth in repose, or the slice of skin at her waist, hidden and vulnerable and—

“ _Damn_ it,” Gene says, throws her pen across the room, puts her face in her hands.

*

One time Gene has her hair unbound, falling all around her face as she works at her desk, and she scowls at her paper and shakes her head and bites back a curse as a strand slips in front of her eyes again. She would stop and tie it back if she weren’t so busy, if she weren’t in the middle of a sentence, but she is and her _damn hair_ —

Finny steps behind her and gathers her hair up in careful hands, without asking, without a word—braids it neatly, fingers tugging a little and brushing softly over the back of Gene’s neck, and she ties the end and pulls on it twice.

“Let’s go to the beach when you’re done,” Finny says, hand resting on Gene’s shoulder.

Gene’s mouth is dry. She swallows, and picks up her pen where she’s dropped it from nerveless fingers.

“Okay,” she says hoarsely, and starts to write again.

Gene feels the touch of Finny’s fingers on her skin for days.

*

It snaps one day, like Gene has taken scissors to her self-control, cut through it in one go.

“I don’t _understand_ you,” Gene says in a half-shout, startling herself into honesty, and Finny stops mid-sentence with her mouth slightly open; it’s no wonder she looks surprised, Gene doesn’t know where that came from herself.

Only that’s a lie, she knows fully what brought that on: it’s that Finny seems untouched by the debilitating madness that is turning Gene inside out, the way she is jealous of Finny and jealous of Finny’s attention, that she doesn’t know if she wants to prove herself better than Finny in all ways, or just soak in Finny’s presence until she can learn to be like her. Finny makes her _want_ , fiercely, like nothing else she has ever felt; and Finny does nothing but continue as she has always been, looking at Gene like she is the best thing in sight, but never _doing_ anything.

Gene doesn’t understand Finny, and it churns hot and angry in her stomach, because she _needs_ to understand—what she can’t understand she can never conquer, never hold, never _keep_.

Finny takes a step forward, says quietly, “You’re my best friend,” and Gene feels the taste of hurting rage flood her mouth like blood, until Finny says, “It’s just us, okay? There’s nothing to understand. It’s just _us_.” And by _us_ she means everything—the tight world they’ve created for themselves, just the two of them, where others might observe but never pass through; the way Gene learns from Finny, and Finny gives to Gene; that Gene does not understand Finny, but sometimes feels as if they are extensions of the same being all the same. By _us_ , Finny means the words _you and me, Gene_ , and the memory of nights spent on the beach, and the feel of her fingers in Gene’s hair, and Gene’s shoulder pressed against Finny’s when they lie in the grass, and all that they have no need to explain to others, all that means they will be everything to each other, nothing less.

Gene makes a noise caught between a sob and a laugh, presses a hand to her mouth. Isn’t that just Finny? She cuts through the noise clouding Gene’s head in one blow and pierces the heart of her; she makes it so _simple_. Gene has never trusted simplicity.

Finny makes her want to.

Before she can choke on another helpless sound, Finny grabs her by the wrist and draws her close; strokes her hair back from her face and leans in and whispers with lips warm on her cheek, “Come on, Gene, _jump_.”

And Gene turns her head blindly and catches Finny’s lips, kisses her until her knees go weak and her pulse is pounding in her ears; Finny breaks away, gasps quietly into the curve of Gene’s neck, and they stumble unsteadily toward one of their beds, maybe Gene’s or maybe Finny’s, it doesn’t matter anymore which one. Gene can’t stop touching, fingernails dragging lines down Finny’s stomach, up her thighs, and Finny doesn’t take her mouth away from Gene for more than ten seconds until they’re finished and gasping for breath, tangled together irretrievably, giddy and trembling and whole.

Forget jumping.

With her hands on Finny’s skin and the sound of Finny’s heartbeat under her ear, Gene _flies_.

\--

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End file.
